


and I always will

by jdphoenix



Series: I don't love you [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hydra Grant Ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might owe Coulson an apology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I always will

**Author's Note:**

> You absolutely have to read the previous fic in this series or this will make zero sense.

"You lied," Grant says as he's transferred from SHIELD to Federal custody. It's the best he can do at the moment, as far as digs at Coulson's conscience go. Has he enjoyed this? Watching him suffer? Why else would he keep lying about it, unless he got some sick pleasure out of seeing him like this?

Coulson just shakes his head, finally tired of his lies.

Grant keeps his eyes trained on the man's face, refusing to let them slide away. Jemma's hovering at Coulson's shoulder, as calm and collected as ever. He's not surprised when she follows him onto the van. She'll haunt him to his date with the electric chair - or the noose or the firing squad or the bed where they inject him with the medically humane poisons, whatever they give traitors these days.

"That's right," she says as they set out, "I think I deserve some consolation after what you did to me."

Grant bites his tongue too keep back the line of defense that's become rote by this point. She fusses with her nails and her sweater, picking at imaginary lint and giving the guard next to her a pointed nudge with her hip when he moves too close. She's just rolling her eyes at the rudeness when the first explosion goes off.

"HYDRA," she breathes, fury making her look wild.

The guards raise their voices to yells to be heard over the gunfire and the sound echoes in the tight space. The van sways dangerously and he jumps, twists through his captors to catch her and buffer her fall.

The butt of someone's rifle cracks against his head and when he wakes up she's gone. Above him bright light is coming through the van doors - real sunlight for the first time in months - and the guards lie dead around him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma drinks all of Hunter's emergency beer and he doesn't even complain about it. She'll have to thank Bobbi for that later, she's sure, but right now she can't care. When she's not crying - which is entirely too much - she's thinking about the time just before he left and laughing at her own naiveté.

She never broke her habit of watching him in the mornings, in fact it began to extend to other times of day. As it turns out, watching the man who had betrayed her lose his mind over her was very compelling. But when Coulson confessed his decision to hand Ward over for trial - which would almost certainly end in his execution - she began to wonder if she shouldn't relieve him of this particular burden. He's a monster and a traitor and a whole host of other things that make her skin crawl to think of, but he was also about to die. Could she live with herself if she let him go to his death thinking … Thinking what?

That was always the problem at the end of it. She had no idea  _what_  he thought or even if she could make it better. So she kept away from Vault D and, when he was given his walk of shame through the base, kept to her room. She followed his progress on her tablet, promising herself that it was only lack of sleep making her fingers shake.

She's glad now that she didn't tell him. Whatever he might think or learn now that he's escaped, she didn't give him the help he never deserved.

Now if only she could reason out why her heart had leapt when she found out he'd escaped his date with the executioner.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Welcome home, Agent Ward."

He's been given well-furnished quarters and the chance to bathe and clean himself up. There were suits in the closet, all fitted almost exactly to his measurements. And now he's being ushered into the office of the man in charge.

Clearly HYDRA's not worried his loyalties might have changed.

"Have a seat," Whitehall says, gesturing to a cozy sitting area to one side of his office.

The man who escorted Ward through the last leg of his journey here - a Mr. Bakshi - joins them without having to be asked. Jemma sits in the fourth seat, wearing the same sour expression she has since the attack on the van. She's not happy he's here, not happy he's free.

"Did you find everything you needed?" Whitehall asks.

"Yes, more than, even. Better than SHIELD used to give its returning agents."

Whitehall exchanges a small smile with Bakshi. It's genuine good-humor at Grant's insult to SHIELD, but there's something deeper there that Grant can't get a read on.

"More than SHIELD used to do to retrieve them sometimes, too," he adds.

"Well," Whitehall says, adjusting his glasses, "I admit you're a special case. We couldn't exactly have you strung up on international television, giving the world the impression we're weak.  _And_ -" He shifts position in his seat, using the motion as an excuse to drop a stack of files on the small table between them, sending some of them sliding dangerously close to the edge. "You've been in the belly of the beast. We couldn't let that kind of intel get away." He gestures to the folders when Grant doesn't immediately reach for them. "Anything you can add would be most useful."

They're files on the team - too many to be  _just_  his team - but that's not what's stopping his hand. Two files, larger than the rest, sit right in front of Whitehall and Jemma's hand is hovering over one of them. Grant calmly reaches past the closest files to grab that one, ignoring the way she pulls back and her lips purse in annoyance.

"That one especially," Whitehall says, some of his ever-present good humor fading. "She was one of ours for a few months, a  _spy_. We can't let that sort of thing go, of course."

Jemma's picture stares up at Grant from the first page of the file.

"She … survived?" he asks and it's honestly a miracle that his shock has turned him numb; it keeps his voice from shaking.

"Unfortunately," Bakshi says.

Grant decides Bakshi isn't as important to HYDRA as he might like to think he is.

"She escaped with another double agent - apparently she was valuable enough to SHIELD that they would expose a second mole to save her." Whitehall, with one leg crossed over the other, toes the other of the large files. "We'd like to make examples of them both."

Grant rifles through the pages of data on Jemma. HYDRA knows about her fear of heights and that she's a proficient dancer, that she's an only child and a bit of a food snob. They've analyzed hours of security footage from the months she spent here, cataloging every bit of it in the form of raw data. There's absolutely no doubt, in the face of it all, that she's really, truly alive.

He might owe Coulson an apology.

He grabs the other woman's file and spends just as much time on it. He doesn't know Bobbi Morse and doesn't care about her, but he'll have to learn everything he can. He does the same with each of the files.

Whitehall doesn't hurry Grant along, only sits patiently like he has all the time in the world. Eventually a phone call pulls Bakshi away and he's dismissed without any trouble. Grant finishes the file he's on - May's - and tosses it onto the table with the others. He's not finished, but he wants to have this conversation while he and Whitehall are alone - or as alone as they can be.

And, as it turns out, they are. Jemma's disappeared, taking her judgments and her anger along with her.

"I can get you Coulson's team." It's not overconfidence to say so. He spent months studying each and every one of them with the express purpose of using them for his own ends - or Garrett's ends, at least. The past few months have changed them all but not enough that he can't still take them down. It won't be as easy as it would have been before, but it's doable.

Whitehall matches Grant's relaxed posture. "I get the feeling there's a 'but' coming."

Grant smiles. "Simmons. I get that you want to make an example of her, but take it out on Morse. I decide what happens to Simmons. She lives? She dies? She's made more  _compliant?_ It's my call."

"And if I say no?"

Grant shrugs almost carelessly. "Why would you? Revenge on one scientist or stopping a legitimate threat to all of HYDRA? Seems like a no-brainer." Whitehall looks like he might want to downplay the danger Coulson poses, so Grant quickly hurries on. "Coulson's already beaten death once. And while he's not too happy about the idea of letting the Avengers know he's alive, you push him wrong, he _will_ call them in and you do not want that."

Whitehall's too good to give away any weakness, but there's a tightening of his jaw that tells Grant he flat-out did not know about this possibility. "And you can push him … right?"

Grant opens his hands, mock-humble. "Definitely."

Whitehall relaxes a tick. He pulls Jemma's file off the table but doesn't open it, only fingers the corner as he thinks it over. "Well, I suppose we all have our vices." His eyes flicker towards the seemingly firm wall to his left. Either he means the ugly painting hanging there or there's a very interesting hidden room behind it. "You help us wipe out SHIELD, you can have her."

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week after Ward's escape, Jemma is forced out into the field. Coulson does it with a frown and a bitten back word that might have been an apology, but there's no helping it. HYDRA's killed twenty people on a bus using what looks to be a toxin Jemma worked on during her time with them.

Apparently her efforts to derail its progress didn't last long after her departure.

Trip and Hunter take her undercover into the facility DHS is holding the remains of the bus and its passengers in. It's frightfully easy, which makes it rather unsurprising that they encounter HYDRA agents inside as well. Here no doubt to sabotage the government's chances of creating a counter-agent.

"Stay here," Hunter orders, pressing her into the desk he's just tackled her behind.

"I need tissue samples!" she yells over the firing of his gun. If HYDRA manages to destroy the remains of the victims, there's very little Jemma can do with just her remaining research from her days undercover. They've definitely changed the formula since then and she needs to know  _how_.

"Stay!" Hunter barks and dashes off to face the enemy.

Jemma huffs and does as she's told. She is fully capable of evading enemy fire while also recovering the necessary samples from the bodies across the room. But if Hunter's going to knock her to the ground every time she tries, they'll both end up shot. She rubs her elbow where it struck the ground, knowing she'll have plenty more pains in the morning.

A shadow moves around the corner of the desk. She brings her gun up but it's kicked from her hands before she can fire. Her world narrows to the barrel of the gun, the delivery system for her end, and she is understandably shocked when it lowers.

The agent behind the gun is not theirs - not unless Coulson has yet  _another_  double agent - and in fact seems rather unhappy about not firing. He scowls at her, like she's somehow interfering with his plans by continuing to live.

Behind her the door to the lab bursts open. The agent fires off three quick shots and by the time Jemma's turned 'round the DHS agents who just entered are dead. When she turns back to the HYDRA agent, he's already gone, leaving a cold wave of fear behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant knows every time Jemma's put in the field. It's not a courtesy or even a way of keeping up HYDRA's end of the bargain, it's simple, cruel joy. Whitehall loves hearing agents complain about having to avoid killing or injuring one of SHIELD's people and is always eager to share the stories with Grant. Not that he wouldn't know regardless - his job of taking down Coulson gives him access to all of HYDRA's files regarding SHIELD - but drinks with Whitehall are faster than waiting on disgruntled agents to file paperwork and it keeps him in the man's good graces besides.

Jemma - the illusion of her - doesn't join them at these meetings. She's disappeared completely and while Grant is definitely glad to have her perverse mix of hatred and apathy gone from his life, he also  _misses_ her. She wasn't the genuine article, but she was more real than grainy surveillance photos and fleeting shots in security feeds.

Three weeks after his return, Grant sets his plans into motion. He's gathered enough intel on the new agents to predict how Coulson will assign them and what their reactions will be.

Hunter goes down first with a broken bone. He won't be able to walk, much less fight, for at least a month.

Skye is next. The explosion doesn't hurt her as badly as planned, but she's still out of action and the near-miss will have Coulson off-balance.

It's quick after that. HYDRA lets information leak on a supersoldier formula and SHIELD  _has_  to send in its remaining muscle and biochemist. They're overwhelmed by superior numbers. Mack and May escape unfortunately - though not unscathed - but Whitehall gets his example and Grant gets his pay.

"But I wonder if the having will be as sweet as the wanting," Whitehall says over his brandy. His voice is its same low tenor, unbothered by the screams from the next room. It's the first time the wall's been open in Grant's presence and he has to admit, Whitehall's vices are even more interesting than he thought.

"It will be," Grant says and sets his own drink aside untouched. He wants to be there when she wakes up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma is warm and comfortable. She can't remember the last mission with her brain dream-addled as it is, but considering the way her muscles ache, she doesn't want to. Familiar fingers brush her hand, her arm, her cheek, before sliding around the back of her neck into her hair. She smiles and twists towards him.

Grant's weight shifts the bed as he moves to settle over her, never once relinquishing the point of contact. His free arm wraps around her back, pulling her against him, and his face rests in the curve of her neck. His breath is gasping as he breathes her in.

"Shh," she says, bringing her arms up around his back. "It's all right. I'm here."

She still doesn't know what's gotten into him, but she can guess well enough. He's always especially physical after missions where she was hurt, even if only slightly. She tries to remember, hoping to find a way to ease his fears, and everything slams back into place.

She tenses beneath him. She no longer holds him so much as she holds her arms stiff for fear of touching him further.

_Ward_  - not Grant, not anymore - eases his weight up onto his elbow, but doesn't release her more than that. He brushes her hair from her face, fingers lingering as he smiles. He takes a breath as though to speak and the thought of it, of hearing  _anything_  he might want to say, is so repellent that it conquers her fears.

She shoves with all her might and manages to get him up far enough that she can roll out from under him. She barely misses cracking her head on the nightstand and scrambles to her feet to back away.

The room is distressingly pleasant. Modern fixtures, simple but attractive bedding, even a fireplace and what looks to be a very expensive painting of a hydra towering over a lone warrior with only a shield for a weapon. No one could miss the symbolism  _there_.

"I'm sorry," Ward says, pulling her attention from the giant reminder of where she is.

He's twisted himself around to sit on the edge of the bed and is smiling up at her almost like he used to. Flecks of blood stain the sleeve of his t-shirt, probably it belongs to someone she cares about. She does a quick check-over of herself and is relieved to find she's dressed the same as she was when last she was conscious. Her pockets have been cleaned out and her shoes removed, but at least she's still wearing her clothes.

While she's reassuring herself of that, Ward takes the opportunity to stand, coming directly into her space. He catches her hands in his and she's under no illusions that the gentle way he rubs circles with his thumbs is indicative of his grip.

"I thought you were dead," he says softly. "I just-" His smile lights up his whole face. "You're  _alive_."

She laughs. She can't help it. He really has lost it.

"And kidnapped by HYDRA," she says, "who is no doubt planning all sorts of lovely recompense for my work as a double agent."

His brings her hands up to his chest, holding them close. "No. They won't. You're safe."

She turns away as much as she's able and, when he releases one of her hands to pull her face back to face him, she twists the other free. There's nowhere to run. Even if she could escape this room - and of that she has her doubts - there are likely guards and several levels of HYDRA security intent on keeping her here, but that doesn't stop her from putting some distance between herself and Ward.

" _Safe?_  Do you even know who you work for?"

"Yes. And  _they_  know who they have working for them."

He reaches for her as he steps closer and she dodges back, away from his touch. He drops his hand with a resigned sigh that isn't nearly as disappointed as she'd like. He shakes his head, an amused smile playing at his lips.

"Whitehall knows I'm his best chance of stopping SHIELD and he knows I won't give him that if he touches you."

She hugs her arms around herself as she tries to make sens of this. Gra- _Ward_ , who she last saw raving and delusional, seems to care about her well-being. That explains why she's so frequently been spared by HYDRA agents in recent weeks. But now that she's here, in what seems to be the heart of it all, she knows she's anything but safe. Any arrangement Ward might have to protect her will last only as long as HYDRA finds use in it. Maybe … maybe if she can convince him of the danger here, she can convince him to help her escape.

"And what happens then?" she asks carefully. "What use are you once you've destroyed SHIELD?"

This time when he comes closer she forces herself to hold her ground. He lifts a hand to brush her hair behind her ear and it's so familiar. She  _wants_  her skin to crawl, but it doesn't. He's done it a thousand times before, after missions or when she woke up with bed head. She's spent so much time hating him, she didn't have time to miss him. And, as it turns out, she did.

Against her will a sigh escapes her and he pushes his luck to step closer.

"Worried about me, Jem?" he asks softly, pitching his voice low just the way it was during all those stolen moments in the shadowy corners of the Bus.

She doesn't know if she's worried  _about_  him or just  _because_  of him and he's always been able to see through her lies, so she curls deeper into herself and hopes that'll be answer enough.

His hand is in her hair, twisting through the strands. "I'm still a darn good specialist," he says. "They'll always have plenty of use for me."

She bites her lip and searches for another tactic. "And when you're … no longer in a position to-"

He cups her face in his hands. She thinks he's going to kiss her and her heart thrums so hard in her chest it hurts. He leans into her so deep she rocks back on her heels, but at the last moment he stops himself and only rests his forehead against hers.

"I'll keep you safe," he says, his fingers pressing tight into her jaw. "I'll never let you go again."

"You don't love me." It's more a reminder to herself than to him. All of this - his touch, his words - may be so similar to what was before, but it was all a lie. She needs to remember that if she's going to survive this. She doesn't mean physically, though here is genuine doubt of that. Whatever happens to her here, she can't let him break her heart again.

He reels back like she slapped him so she repeats it, every word tearing at her. He actually stumbles away, his gaze drifting like he can't look at her.

"You  _don't_ ," she insists. "I was a  _mission_ , a  _mark_. I was just another calculation."

He reaches a hand for her but makes no effort to touch her. He's still wavering on his feet. "No."

" _Yes_. You made that abundantly clear when you  _dropped me out of a plane_."

" **It was supposed to float!** " he roars.

The blood rushes from her face so swiftly she feels it must carry her whole body down to nothing more than a puddle on the floor. She remembers, suddenly, that this isn't just the man who left her hollow. This is a well-trained specialist, one of the best in his field, and just a few weeks ago he spent every day hallucinating her ghost. Does he still? Does he know this is  _really_  her, that if he hurts her, he will  _really_  hurt her?

"Ward," she says, lifting a calming hand towards him. He catches it and drags her close to wrap her up in his arms so tight it almost hurts.

"It was supposed to float," he says into her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It was supposed to float."

Again she lifts her arms around him, tentatively this time.

"I know," she says. "It's okay. I'm here. I know."

His ragged breathing evens out slowly. When he eases away, her skin feels cold and wet where his face was. She lets him dictate how much distance to put between them and ends up still very much in his arms as a result.

"You'll see." He presses her hair down with his palms, framing her with his hands before wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Everything I promised you before, we'll have it now, here."

It's probably a mistake with the state he's in, but she knows if she gives in now, it'll only be harder later. "We can't," she says with a small shake of her head.

His grip on her spasms and she tries not to let her fear show.

"Why not?" he asks, his voice tight.

"Because it was all a game to you and to me it was-" Her throat feels swollen and burning, the way it does when she eats shellfish, but she has to say this, just one last time. "I  _loved_  you." She closes her eyes, unable to look at him. "It can't ever be like it was before."

She wants this to be over. She'd almost rather be tortured or killed than this, whatever this is. She wishes she could go back and tell him she was alive when she had the chance. She wishes she'd never fallen in love with him at all.

When she can't take the waiting anymore she opens her eyes. He's not angry or sad, he's …  _smiling_.

"What?" she asks, too confused to think straight.

His hand slides up into her hair to cup the back of her head and bring her closer. She obediently lets her head turn to one side, to rest against his shoulder. "You loved me," he says. Something about the pure joy in his voice makes her cling tight to him, part of her still believing he'll protect her from whatever frightens her, even when it's him.


End file.
